Time's Scythe
by Calapine
Summary: The Ninth Doctor has one final journey to make.
1. Calm Waters

**Time's Scythe**_  
_

_"A man is the sum of his memories, you know, and a Time Lord even more so." -The Fifth Doctor _

One 

"I'm afraid you're dead now, young man," said the Librarian, (an old man with swept-back silver hair) and the Doctor felt less surprise than, perhaps, he should have. It was difficult to mistake death for something else. He had been burned away, and when one is dispersed to their constituent atoms one very much expects to be dead. He waved his hands in front of his face and flexed his fingers; his body seemed to be in order.

Still, he had not expected the first sight to greet him on the other side to be a library. Though, and he admitted this only to himself, perhaps he should have given the number of times that he had visited here. It was different now, he realised, as he looked around. The corners of the room were indistinct spider shadows, and the shelves near him and the librarian were the only ones not thick with dust. An oil lamp, polished to a high shine, was lit and sitting on the heavy oak desk by the door. Thick, dark green velvet curtains were pulled close over the tall windows, and the air was still and expectant, waiting. Somewhere, nearby, a clock was ticking.

The Doctor shrugged off his leather jacket and sank down into the old armchair by the desk. A book lay on the side table, its dust jacket missing and the pages dog-eared and yellowing with age. Just behind it sat a picture in an elegant silver frame. He picked it up and frowned. It was a photograph of a rose: pink and freshly bloomed.

"There's a whole garden outside," commented the Librarian. "If you come back when it's light I'd be happy to show you. I'm usually in need of some help with the pruning."

"You're here alone then?" asked the Doctor, carefully putting the frame back on the table, determined not to give it a second glance.

The old man nodded. "Mostly."

"I'm here to keep you company, I suppose?"

"Certainly not. You have your own journey to make. I'm just a beginning." He smiled, not unkindly, and took the armchair opposite the Doctor. He did not slouch, but produced a bottle of port and two glasses from somewhere under the chair.

"You think that's a good idea?" asked the Doctor.

"I think that you can forgive yourself one drink," replied the librarian, passing him a half-full glass. "At least," he added.

The Doctor's eyes studied him over his glass. He took a quick sip and laid it on the table. "What would you know about regret?"

"Only what I've read," he chuckled, casting an eye at his bookshelves.

"Pride."

"Or arrogance. Something I've never quite been able to let go of."

"You regret nothing," said the Doctor, somewhere between a question and a statement.

The Librarian was silent for a moment, and the shadows around his face seemed to grow. "I remember picking up a rock to kill an injured man."

"Ian stopped you," said the Doctor, catching his own memory of the incident.

The Librarian nodded, his eyes fixed on his port. "I wanted Susan to be safe. I wanted to escape, and leave those busybody teachers to their own devices." He looked up, fixing the Doctor with a hawk-like stare. "I was embarrassed, when he asked what I was doing, embarrassed by such a primitive creature, because his moral courage was greater than mine. I was a foolish old man."

"Older now," murmured the Doctor.

"But no wiser."

"I suppose that's why I still come here."

"You are imperfect and you are mortal. And you are more afraid than anyone I have seen for a very, very long time."

"Given what I've seen, it'd be pretty stupid of me not to be afraid."

The Librarian waved a wrinkled hand dismissively. "Humans! There is little to fear out there. There is more to fear in here." He tapped his head with one long finger. "You have created your own demons."

"I was given them," snapped the Doctor.

"Yes, and yet you agreed to carry them around, didn't you? Hmm? You must live with what you are. I suggest you talk to him about it."

"Don't worry, I will," said the Doctor, his voice darkening.

"Violence comes far too easily to you, " said the Librarian, snatching up his book from the table by the Doctor and pulling out a pince-nez. He settled back in the armchair and flicked through the book, searching for his place.

"You want me to leave?" asked the Doctor. He downed the rest of the port and it burned his throat. The sensation was pleasant enough, but he didn't ask for a second drink.

"Stay, or leave, it makes little difference to me," said the Librarian, glancing at him over the top of his book. "Spend a few days reading, spend a few centuries working in the gardens, I doubt you will change. You're too stubborn, and the journey ahead will still be the same."

"You _do_ want me to leave."

"I am quite content, thank you."

"But this is a library. Where's the 'quiet, please.' sign?"

The Librarian frowned. "This is also my home, and I expect my guests to be polite."

"I didn't mean…"

"Oh, I've seen much worse. "

"I should go."

"Perhaps some Dickens?" asked the Librarian, waving a hand at a well-stocked shelf by the door. "You might need something to read, young man, you've a long trip ahead of you."

The Doctor examined the shelf for a moment, selected one of the soft-bound leather volumes and slipped it into his jacket.

Two

The Doctor pulled back the oak-panelled door and found a dark stairwell beyond. Dim lamps were attached to the walls, spaced at long intervals. The Doctor began to descend, his feet making no sound, as if the air around him was determined not to be disturbed by his presence. Soon the lamps changed to torches, sitting in heavy iron brackets. He was tempted to pick one up, to draw comfort from the nearness of the light and warmth of the flame.

Deeper and deeper he went, and he felt as though he were going farther and farther back in time. The thought amused him more than it should have: ahead of him lay the future, but time was a concept with no true meaning here. Centuries could be spent descending these steps and nothing would change.

Finally he arrived at a roughly hewn wooden door, set into a stone arch. A heavy bronze latch was bolted onto it. He pulled it open, surprisingly light, and walked into the tunnel ahead. Dim and damp, it could have been one of any number of subterranean cavities he remembered.

He walked on, always taking a right when the tunnels split.

"Who's there!" called a voice as he approached the twenty-seventh junction. There was a flash of movement and the wave of a torch. The Doctor almost smiled; company at last.

"Just passing through. I'm not sure of the way," he called back.

The torch reappeared and a little man with an unruly mop of black hair approached.

"No need to go sneaking about then is there?" he said, almost an accusation. "You never know what you might find in here." He glanced over his shoulder, before holding the torch up to the Doctor's face. The heat was enough to hurt, but he did not flinch. "My, my," said the explorer. "I wasn't expecting you quite so soon."

"That a problem?"

"Of course not! I know the way. Come along, come along." He began to stride away down the corridor, the light departing with him, but the Doctor needed only a few long strides to catch up. "You never know what might be watching you," confessed the explorer. "We'd best be careful."

"Then there are things down here? Trying to find you?" asked the Doctor.

The explorer smiled self-consciously. "It's only what I bring with me," he said. "But it's enough to make things very unpleasant if I'm not careful."

"So what are they?"

The explorer put a finger to his lips. "Ssh. I hear something," he whispered. "Stay here."

He moved away in a scurry, carrying the light with him. The Doctor sighed and leant against the wall, kicking at the ground in frustration.

A moment later the light grew brighter, but the explorer's face was white. He said nothing until he was very close to the Doctor, and was able to mutter in his ear. "We're being followed."

"By what?" asked the Doctor, lowering his voice.

The explorer cast a look over his shoulder. "They're close. We have to move on. Quickly."

Not much of an answer, thought the Doctor. He followed anyway. While he had past only twenty-seven junctions, he had a vague notion that the labyrinth could be infinitely huge; getting lost in here wasn't a pleasant thought at all.

They walked on. They didn't speak, and the Doctor wondered why. There was the occasional over-the-shoulder glance from the explorer accompanied either by a quick smile or a worried frown. A few times he stopped suddenly and put a finger to his lips, but the Doctor would neither hear or see anything of concern. After a few moments, the explorer appeared satisfied and would walk on, the Doctor trailing in his wake, his patience rapidly expiring.

The tunnel split again, and the explorer held up a hand. He cocked his head and the Doctor resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Now what?" he asked, a little more angrily than he'd intended.

"They're close," murmured the explorer. He turned to face the Doctor, his eyes wide and face white. "When I say run…"

"No," said the Doctor shortly. "I'm a bit sick of this game of hide and seek you've got going on here. Give me that." He pulled the torch out of the explorer's hand and waved it at the darkness. "All right, I know there's someone out there! Show yourself!"

"Oh my," whispered his companion. "You shouldn't have done that."

The Doctor turned on him. "Why not? All you've shown me is how to be afraid of the dark, or have you just been leading me round in circles?"

"It's not as easy as it looks." The smile vanished from the explorer's face.

He stepped away from the Doctor, his form fading into nothingness, and suddenly the Doctor was surrounded by figures, dark and looming and richly robed. He took a step towards the nearest one and lifted the lamp to his face. Stone eyes, sombre features; the look condemned him.

The Doctor stumbled backwards, suddenly overcome with fear. With guilt. Bile rose in his throat. These figures were Time Lords.

He recovered himself quickly, and stood, facing the nearest. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Death," replied the first, his voice heavy.

"Death," repeated another, somewhere to the left.

"Death," said a third, behind him.

"Death…Death…Death…" The voices became a chant, the chant a scream, burning in the Doctor's ears.

_"Death!"_

He whirled round wildly, smashing the lamp against the wall. The light gone, he could see nothing, but ran anyway, shoving past the screaming figures.

He didn't know how long he ran for, but when he stopped his legs fell beneath him and his lungs stung as he breathed. His hands were slippery with blood; he'd injured them as he ran, crashing into walls he could not see. Now though, the darkness was a comfort. He sat, closing his eyes and hoped to sleep.

Nimble fingers pressing into his shoulder woke him. He jerked into wakefulness and scrambled away.

"Afraid?" It was the explorer, holding another lamp. A brighter one.

"Do you always run?" he asked.

The explorer shrugged. "My way of freedom. I make more of it than I should, I suppose. They found more fear in you than me anyway." He offered his hand, and helped the Doctor to his feet. "It's not far now, in fact there's a house on the outskirts. Feel free to visit, if you like."

"Thank you," said the Doctor, surprised to find that he meant it.

"And do try and enjoy the trip, won't you?" said the explorer. "It'll only be new once."

Three

The labyrinth faded like a cloud on a hot summer's day as the Doctor walked towards the rickety wooden bridge. He approached cautiously, half-expecting a disgruntled goat to leap out from underneath it and demand a toll for crossing.

With the complete non-appearance of any fairy-tale creatures and the bridge safely behind him, the Doctor walked on until he found himself on a beach of fine, soft sand. The sun beat down on his back, convincing him to take off his jacket and tuck it under his arm.

The city was here; he could see it spiralling high on the island some distance from the coast. It's protector was much closer, however, and sitting some way down the beach, watching the waves roll in.

The mechanic did not stir at the Doctor's approach, and so he waited. Patience did not come easily to him, but he did not want to offend this one before he had asked his questions.

"Am I really that interesting?" asked the mechanic, his voice far more annoyed than the calm expression on his face would suggest.

"I was trying to be polite," the Doctor told him.

"There's nothing stopping you from passing."

"I thought I was supposed to be enjoying this trip. Getting the benefit of advice and experience of this afterlife of ours."

"Is that what he told you?" The mechanic opened his eyes and stood up. He picked up the velvet smoking jacket that he had been sitting on and gave it a firm shake, dislodging the grains of sand that had clung to it.

"Nah, he just gave me a book."

"Have you read it?"

"I was saving it for later."

The mechanic nodded and began to walk along the beach, towards the small hut that lay some hundred yards away, beneath the shade of a crop of tall, willowy trees. "I'd offer to take you out to the city, but I'm a little tired, and I think it would be best left to another day. When you're feeling more settled in. But the least I can do is offer you a cup of tea."

The Doctor grinned as they entered the hut and he realised that it was, in fact, a lot bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. Most every surface was covered with some sort of half finished gadget, and the floor was littered with incomplete projects that had been shoved out of the way and were accumulating significant coverings of dust. The only clear surface was by the door where the kettle stood next to a sink along with a couple of mugs and a tin of biscuits.

"You keep busy," said the Doctor as the kettle began to hiss.

The mechanic smiled, fished a couple of teabags out of a box and ducked under the table to get the milk out of the small fridge located there. "We all find ways to keep ourselves occupied. One way or the other. I rather like the ocean."

He poured the just-boiled water into the two mugs and waited.

When the tea had brewed and the Doctor held the warm mug between his hands he felt a great deal better, safer, somehow. The mechanic was quite relaxed, quite comfortable in this workshop of his, and as he took long sips of his own tea, he cast an eye over the nearest workbench.

"I left most of this stuff on Earth," he told the Doctor. "I wonder what the Brigadier did with it all."

"Storage, probably."

"So I'm told," said the mechanic doubtfully. "There was so much I never had a chance to finish."

"You could have. You didn't have to… to do what you did."

"I think 'die' is the word you're looking for. But you're wrong."

"You had a choice," said the Doctor.

"And you didn't? You could have let the girl die. You could have taken the TARDIS and escaped whenever you wanted to. But you didn't. Because it wasn't that sort of choice."

"I had to save those people."

"Because it was the right thing to do?" asked the Doctor. "Or because your guilt would have consumed you otherwise?" He held up a placating hand at the Doctor's look of outrage. "Your guilt drove you, whether you care to admit that or not. Just as my fear drove me."

"And that was more important than going on living."

"That's what I thought."

The Doctor gulped down the rest of his tea, and began strolling round the room, taking a closer look at some of the electronics and chronotronics and micro-welding. Something inside him had gone very, very cold and he needed a distraction. It was strange that he could look at these objects and understand what they did and how they were made, but he knew that didn't have half the skill that the other did in their construction. A matter of necessity, he supposed. He'd never been exiled, but he could remember the sort of desperation it had driven him too.

"You never held a grudge," said the Doctor.

"What would be the point?"

"I don't know." He paused, his fingers clenching his empty mug. "Some days I hate them."

"I did too. I let it go."

The Doctor shook his head. "I can't. I killed them all and I still can't forgive them."

"Give yourself time," said the mechanic. "Don't bury it; it'll eat you inside out. But you've a difficult few years ahead."

"I know."

The mechanic pulled open one of the drawers under the nearest bench, and threw what he had retrieved at the Doctor. He caught it easily, a shining brass oval.

"Open it," said the mechanic. Inside it was a compass, ornately designed. "The sea's to the west, but you'll want to go east, inland to the river. He'll be there, sooner or later. He'll take you across."

Four 

The river was hundreds of metres wide, the Doctor guessed, and the water rushed past in a torrent; if he tried to swim he'd be dragged downstream or dashed against the sharp rocks that jutted out of the water in vicious crops. He expected to have to wait by the bank for some time, but it was only a matter of seconds before he saw the dark silhouette of the rowboat and the Ferryman emerging from the fog rolling over the river.

"Do I have to pay a toll?" he asked. The Ferryman stuck his oar straight down into the water with a firm movement as the wooden boat scraped against the rocky bank with a solid crunch. His hooded face looked up at the Doctor. He was clothed in a coarse brown fabric, with yards of the stuff circling around his neck and over his head, clouding his face with shadows.

"What would you pay with?" he asked. His voice was deep and rich and serious.

The Doctor reached into his pockets and was surprised to find them empty, all the usual paraphernalia that he carried around with him was gone. Then his fingers clasped around the Dickens novel that the Librarian had lent him.

"Nothing," he said. "I've nothing. I'm sorry."

"I do not ask for a toll," the Ferryman told him. "And you only have what you carry with you."

"You'll take me to the other side?" asked the Doctor.

"There's no other way to cross the river."

The Doctor stepped carefully into the boat, gripping the side as he sat down opposite the Ferryman, who nodded and used an oar to push away from the bank. With sure, strong strokes, he propelled them into the mist.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. The Ferryman seemed perfectly at peace, perfectly content with his task, but the Doctor was growing uneasy. He fidgeted on the hard bench seat and cast a look over his shoulder, but by now all three hundred and sixty degrees of his view were obscured by the swirling grey mists.

"Don't suppose there are any sea monsters around here are there?" he asked.

"And if there were?"

The Doctor shrugged. "The usual, I guess: improvise."

The Ferryman's shoulders shifted, and the Doctor swallowed, taking a tighter grip of the boat's side. Suddenly, the hood was thrown back and the Doctor was confronted with a mass of brown curls and a smile to rival his own.

"Why, Doctor, I do believe you're afraid of me," said the Ferryman, still grinning.

"Don't be stupid," the Doctor muttered.

"I've been rowing this boat back and forth for the better part of a millennia, and I've yet to see so much as a single fish in this river. Does that make you feel any better?"

"Yeah, I suppose." He shifted in his seat again. "How did you do it?" There, that had been painless. The one thing that he really wanted to know; the answer that had so eluded him time and time again.

"Hmm?"

"The Daleks, you went back and blew up their bunker; you took the Presidency and let Gallifrey been invaded so you could save it; you stopped…" The Doctor broke off and laughed. "…you stopped the heat death of the universe. And you never doubted for a second."

"Ah," nodded the Ferryman. "That."

"Yeah. So how come it was so easy for you?"

The Ferryman twisted the oars and plunged them down into the water, bringing the boat to a sudden stop. He stared at the Doctor for a long moment. "He faced his fear, and that was more important than going on living."

"It's so long ago," said the Doctor. "I can't remember it clearly."

"It was a moment of perfect clarity. He still hasn't found that, but that was my inheritance."

"I don't want to be afraid."

The Ferryman pulled up the oar and began to row again. "We are all products of our circumstances." He grinned suddenly, and the Doctor grinned back. It was impossible not to, the warmth there was palatable. "And we've been in much worse circumstances."

"Than _genocide?"_

_"Personal_ circumstances," said the Ferryman, correcting himself. "There is bitterness and hatred ahead of you. The calm waters end here; the others are not old enough to understand."

"Understand what? We're dead."

The Ferryman shrugged. "You'll do what you want anyway. Just be careful. You've enough problems of your own without picking up anyone else's."

"So it is his fault," murmured the Doctor. "It is his fault."

The Ferryman took up his oars and began to row, faster this time. "Now don't be foolish. You made your own choices. And if the next words I hear are anything about fairness then I shall capsize us, and one of us will have a pretty miserable time getting to the shore."

"Thanks a lot," said the Doctor.

"Just doing my job," said the Ferryman, flashing another grin.

The fog had cleared a little now, and the other side of the river was in sight. A rocky beach, and behind it, bright green fields and little wooden fences and stiles. English countryside, it seemed.

The boat ground against the beach, and the Doctor leapt out quickly and helped the Ferryman to pull it up the shore.

"I stay on this side, mostly," the Ferryman told him. "There's a little pier and a shed a few hundred yards upstream. Best place to look for me."

"No toll required?" asked the Doctor, wandering up the beach and taking a leap onto the grass.

"There's never a toll!" called the Ferryman, and his rich, booming voice seemed to echo against the sky.


	2. Here Be Monsters

  
Five

Beneath a striped parasol there was a table ladled with cakes and scones and tea. A young blonde man relaxed there, chatting quietly to a dark-haired woman. When the Doctor approached the woman stood up and gave him a quick nod before returning to the cricket pitch where she took her turn at bat.

There were only five people playing the game, and none wore cricketing whites. The Doctor recognised them all, but he wasn't interested in speaking to any of them. Anything he might have wanted to tell them would have been infinitely better expressed centuries ago by the man sitting under the parasol.

"They're serving tea at four," said the cricketer as the Doctor took the seat next to him. "If you're still here, you're more than welcome to join us."

"Thanks," said the Doctor awkwardly. Leaning back carefully in the seat, he tried to make himself comfortable. "I didn't realise there would be anyone else here."

"I always liked having people around. I never could enjoy being alone."

"That's subtle," said the Doctor with a nod at the game going on in front of him.

"You were very harsh with yourself."

"I'd hurt enough people."

"But that wasn't really you, was it?"

The Doctor shrugged, caught somewhere between anger and guilt. "I was the one who had to live with it."

The cricketer raised his eyebrows. "Was that an accusation?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Not at you."

"How very kind."

The Doctor hid a smile. It was then that he noticed the cricketer's hand, his left one, scarred and torn and a little bloody. It hung limply at his side, useless. The Doctor swallowed, his eyes widening slightly and he looked away quickly. It was too late, however.

"Ah, sorry about that," muttered the cricketer, a little embarrassed, but not enough to conceal the damaged limb.

"It's not your fault…" The Doctor paused, thinking quickly. "…is it?"

The cricketer turned his attention to the cricket match, and spoke as though the matter were trivial. "It seemed more sensible to have all the scars in one place."

"I thought that was what all this was for." He waved his arms vaguely.

"I wouldn't want to spoil the match," the cricketer told him. "It won't work forever, I know that. It's poisoned."

"That's one way to confront your monsters."

"But hardly the best."

"You don't seem very sure of yourself," said the Doctor.

"Oh, I'm not. You can't have all that invulnerability for ever, you know. Young people…" He smiled. "There were so many of them I was bound to pick something up. Just as my…qualities would create less empathy in the next."

"Less empathy? Is that what you call it?"

"Quite. Well, one is supposed to mellow with age. He probably did, and he'll remember at some point."

At that moment the batter was bowled out, and the cricketer sprang to his feet, applauding. "Well bowled!" he called, going across to offer a handshake.

Soundlessly, the Doctor slipped away.

It was a pleasant walk, though there was far too little noise for the Doctor's liking. It wasn't until he noticed the man standing by the lamppost (such a strange thing in a country lane) that he realised how the landscape had been quietly changing around him. Less like an ideal summer day, and more like a sombre autumn evening.

"I didn't expect to see you here," said the Doctor, finally recognising the figure.

"Oh, he's done very well," the Master told him. "Pushed me to the boundaries. In a few centuries he might succeed in exorcising me completely. But I'm still here." The Master paused. "He's very like you, though I doubt you'd see it. But he deals with his guilt quite differently."

"He killed you. I should buy him a drink."

"He'd never accept it." A smile appeared on his lips. "Careful, Doctor. You should know that you can't harm me here. Attack me and you imperil only yourself.. But then, you are already in a great deal of danger." He cocked his head slightly. "I could help you."

The Doctor folded his arms. "Oh? How?"

"You're alone here. Where you're going, your other selves can't help you. I, on the other hand, am more than willing to do so."

"And what can you do?"

"I can guide you. Protect you. Warn you about what's ahead."

"That's very thoughtful," said the Doctor. "What's in it for you?"

"I should have thought that were obvious," said the Master crisply. "I wish to exist. If I can not do so here, than I can do so in your realm."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows, chewed his lip and then folded his arms. "Thanks," he said. "But no thanks."

The Master said nothing as he walked away and the stifling silence returned.

When he saw the castle ahead of him, he took a look behind. The Master's silhouette was still visible against the darkening sky. He raised a hand in farewell, but the Doctor ignored it and walked on.

Six

The toy soldiers would have been comical if their heavy grip on the Doctor's shoulders didn't hurt so much. Despite his questioning of them, they said nothing, but forced him to move through the portcullis and up a narrow spiralled staircase. He came out on the balcony, and would have made a dash for it but he appeared to have found the soldiers' general. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the past, laid out before him like a patchwork quilt. The Doctor glanced over the battlements; the stairs must have been a lot longer than he had realised.

The soldiers released him and shoved him forwards, towards the brightly coloured general.

"Well, that's a nice welcome for you," snapped the Doctor, rubbing his shoulder. "Thanks a lot."

"We must be ever vigilant," said the general. "And guard against weakness. He's almost there…but not quite." He leaned over the battlements, and passed the Doctor his telescope.

The Doctor shoved it back to him. "Not interested. I just want to get on, thanks."

"More speed, less haste. You died quickly."

"So did you."

"It wasn't fair," muttered the general.

The Doctor was surprised. It was, after all, a very petty statement. "Since when was it ever fair?"

"I was so full of life," snapped the general. "And it was all snatched away from me so suddenly. There was so much more I could have done."

The toy soldiers jerked forward, raising their swords. The Doctor backed away from them as discretely as he could. He glanced at the general, and suddenly saw through the mask of anger. There was a deeper sadness there, a loneliness that the Doctor could not understand. It was one thing to be alone, the last of your kind; it was quite another to be alone in a crowd. The Doctor knew that the general had never quite found his place in the universe.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You'll be safe here, if you want to stay," said the general. "The walls are strong and the soldiers loyal. We can defend our position indefinitely."

"Defend against what?" asked the Doctor.

"He's out there," murmured the general. "The dark general with his own soldiers. He duplicates every move, every defence, every advance." He smashed his hand against the battlements. "It is an impossible war!"

"Yeah, alright, but who are you fighting?"

The general shot him an angry look, and then marched into the castle. With a threatening gesture from one of the toy soldiers, the Doctor followed. They passed a train set, a town of Lego and a room full of rocking horses. The general paused and whirled around, glaring at the toy soldier behind the Doctor.

"The stables are supposed to be on the ground floor," he snapped, before walking off again.

He finally stopped in a room dominated by a massive table-top map. Most of it was a landscape laid out in bright primary colours, but there were darkened areas at either end that were marked 'Cricket Pitch' and 'Ballroom' and 'Village.'

The two factions were clear enough, and it seemed that only that afternoon the teddy bears' picnic brigade had unsuccessfully engaged a phalanx of kites.

Enough was enough, decided the Doctor, musing over how kites would be able to attack anything. "This doesn't strike you as a little odd?" he said.

The general looked at him, and for a moment his harsh expression cleared. "You mean the toys? I suppose it is, but it's a lot nicer than seeing bits of people strewn about the place."

The Doctor nodded, understanding. "So who are you fighting?" he asked again.

The general gave a tight smile. "I think he's represented somewhere on the board. Ah, here we are." He picked up a dark figure and tossed it to the Doctor. It was a well-made model. Plastic, realised the Doctor with a shudder of distaste. He recognised it as the Valeyard, that strange future phantom that the general had faced at his trial. The memories forced themselves to the surface, and for an instant the Doctor felt the general's fear as he recalled how he had stopped fighting everything and everyone and become quieter, and so much more reflective after that encounter. He had spent a great deal of time thinking of the future, fearing it and what it could bring for him.

Odd how introspective he had once been, now that he did everything he could to avoid thinking about the past.

"Good likeness," he said and put the model back on the battlefield.

"I suppose it is. Though I don't like the eyes; I'd rather they were a little less realistic." The Doctor understood that, remembering the cold, calculating madness that he had seen lurking within them.

"You could stay here, for a while at least. You could help me. Together we can drive him back."

"I'd rather just keep walking, thanks."

The eyes clouded over, and the Doctor glanced at the exit, and shifted his weight, ready to move quickly.

"So," exclaimed the general. "The coward shows his true colours at last."

"Now, wait just a second," said the Doctor, taking a step back. The toy soldiers were no-where to be seen. He could run, but he wasn't sure of the direction. Straight through and out the other side of the castle, he imagined, but if these grotesque toys got a hold of him it would probably be quite painful. Staying, on the other hand, would mean, at best, a very loud speech.

He grinned. Then he ran.

Seven

The Doctor had left the battlements a long way behind him and walked now along a deserted street.

The wind hit his back, biting and harsh; it had scraped the paint off the houses that lined the cobbled road until they were a dull stone grey. All the windows and doors and shutters were closed and colourless. Paranoia gnawed at him as he walked further and further, for he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

But no matter how quickly he turned, or how subtly he peered at the dark window panes, the street remained unmoving, uninhabited.

He walked on, determined not to look back, no matter how many eyes he felt burning into his back.

There was a flicker of a shadow in his peripheral vision and then a sleek ginger feline jumped down onto the road in front of him. It looked at him for a moment, before it began to purr.

"You recognise me then?" said the Doctor to the cat. It gave a lazy yawn, turned around and began walking down the pavement. After a few metres it paused and turned back to the Doctor. "Well, if you insist," he muttered, and followed the cat.

He found Time's Champion in one of the side-streets, little more than an alleyway. He sat on a dilapidated chair, the covering torn and grey stuffing spilling out, with an unsteady wooden stall in front of him. Three upturned mugs lay on it. All were chipped and only one had its handle wholly intact.

"Guess which one the bean's under," the champion said. "Win the game."

"What's the prize?" asked the Doctor.

The champion shrugged. "I don't think there is one."

The cat leapt onto his lap and settled down, purring loudly. He stroked the animal's back absently, his attention absorbed by the mugs sitting in front of him.

"Do you know which one it's under?" asked the Doctor.

"I've forgotten. I used to be much better at this."

"Why don't you just look?" the Doctor asked.

The champion looked up, horrified. "I can't look! That's cheating! I can't cheat, I can't cheat…" He broke off, and when he looked up at the Doctor again his eyes were pleading. "Please, do you know which one it is?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Not a clue."

He waited a few minutes, but the champion continued to contemplate the mugs. "Why don't you just pick one?" asked the Doctor.

"That's what they're waiting for." The champion beckoned to the Doctor, indicated that he should crouch down, and then dropped his voice. "They're watching me."

"I think they're watching me too," said the Doctor.

It seemed to be the right thing to say, for the champion immediately relaxed, and there was perhaps, the hint of a smile.

"Then I'm not mad," he said with some relief. "I'm not mad at all."

"Do you know what they are? What they want?"

"Naturally," said the champion.

The cat stopped purring and leapt to the ground. Its hackles rose as it stared further down the alley, to where the buildings faded into shadow. The champion didn't bother to look up, instead he shuffled the mugs around and poked the middle one experimentally.

The Doctor stared further down the alley, and after a moment's consideration, walked towards the shadows.

"There's nothing you can do about it!" the champion called to him, but the Doctor ignored him. Curiosity was as much a part of him as any of the others.

The air stank, a putrid rotting smell, though all the rubbish bins were neatly stacked against the wall. He checked behind them, but there was nothing there, then took a quick look inside the bins but was unwilling to investigate them further. Nothing but the expected garbage, and no-where else to hide. He pushed against the blank wall that marked the end of the alley, but it was solid brick. Frowning slightly, he turned to go back, but a whisper of movement caught his eye.

There was something changing on the wall; the flutter of a shadow. The Doctor watched it for a moment and the shape changed until it was quite clearly a face, and it was smiling. Another movement. Another. The face was laughing.

"Hello," said the Doctor in a friendly voice. "I'm the Doctor."

The face stopped laughing. The shadow eyes narrowed and sharp canines appeared in the mouth.

"Now that's not very nice," the Doctor told the shadow.

And then it whispered at him.

It wasn't a real whisper. He couldn't hear anything, but it was inside his head, like pins being stuck into his brain and it was talking. "The game never ends," it said. Each syllable sent a sharp jolt of pain through his body.

He went back to the champion and found the cat curled up in his lap, peacefully sleeping, and so was the champion. His features were slack, but still the worry lines remained. He looked so much older now, and the Doctor guessed that it was not a peaceful sleep. He didn't have the heart to disturb him again, but before he left he looked under the mugs for the bean.

Naturally, there wasn't one to be found.

As he walked out of the town, he couldn't help but notice the shadows, and suddenly every one was a face, leering at him out of the walls. It could be his imagination, he thought, and even if it's not, they're just shadows. Just shadows.

At least the silence had stopped. It was faint, but there was a lilting melody in the air, and the Doctor used that to guide him onwards.

Eight

The music was soft and soothing, but the Doctor wasn't listening. He threw open the doors to the ballroom in what he hoped was a dramatic gesture, but the disturbance went unnoticed by the dancers within. They flew round the polished floor, great swirls of colour and movement and elegance. Nobody missed a step, and yet each couple was quite individual in their own way.

There was only one dancer that the Doctor was looking for and he stalked round the hall till he found him, sweeping a woman - one that he recognised very well - across the dance floor.

He took a deep breath and forgot any sort of courtesy, but before he could make a scene Life's Champion stepped away from his partner. He gave a gallant bow before taking the woman's hand and escorting her to where the Doctor was standing.

The Doctor swung at him, his fist connecting firmly with the dancer's jaw. The woman shot him a look of pure venom and knelt by the fallen man, checking his wound.

He brushed her off. "I'll be fine, Grace." He stood up and regarded the Doctor levelly. "I didn't expect you to be quite so direct."

"You bastard," spat the Doctor. "You sick, twisted, selfish _bastard."_

He was met by a look of infinite calm. "I live with the guilt too."

"You bloody well died with it! But you didn't even get that right. You got me instead."

"Well, now we have eternity to work it out," said the dancer. "That should occupy us for the first few centuries at least, and by then you'll probably have died again so we'll have someone new to talk to."

"You have any idea what you did to me? What I had to live with while you were busy swanning around here?"

"It isn't always like this."

"Looks pretty cushy to me," snapped the Doctor. "Nice orchestra, fancy clothes…that doctor you liked so much."

"We take comfort where we can."

"And they called _me_ a coward."

"You don't understand," said the dancer. "Listen."

The intensity of the dancer's voice made him pause: the Doctor realised that he had been distracted by the effortless elegance, and his own burning anger. There was something else here, drifting on the air currents. The dancers knew too, their movements were faster, the beat of the music had quickened.

But that wasn't the beat of music, it was the chiming of a clock, a grandfather clock, and it shook the walls. The dance increased its pace again, a blur of colour circling the floor. The clock chimed again and again, each one drawn out into a long, rolling beat, but the Doctor didn't bother to count. The noise was in the walls, in his head, and it hurt.

"What is that?" he shouted, struggling to hear his own voice. Wind shrieked at the windows, and a chandelier shattered, shards of glass rained down on the dancers, but they did not stop. Glass was on the floor and in their shoes and hair and skin. Droplets of blood started to appear, then flow and flow, some wounds worse than others, and the floor was painted red.

They danced on.

The Doctor stared, horrified, but the dancer appeared unsurprised. The woman, Grace, was still standing by him and his hand slipped into hers. 

"What's going on here?" demanded the Doctor, his expression stone and his eyes still fixed on the macabre celebration before him.

"This is mine," said the dancer. "You must leave now. They can't be allowed to escape, and they must not touch you. _They must not."_ His voice held desperation, but he seemed in no hurry to do anything. Instead he watched the windows, and the Doctor, following his gaze, saw that they were humming, the glass was vibrating.

The Doctor whirled around, but there was no exit in any direction. He tried to remember how he had entered the ballroom, but his thoughts were slippery as silverfish.

"They'll have blocked the way back," said the dancer. "But they don't know you're here. You have to find the way out; the way forward."

"How?" asked the Doctor, unsure if he had spoke the word or merely thought it. The vibrations from the windows sang through the air.

The dancer shook his head. "I'm not sure!" he shouted. "There's something here though! Something different, you'll recognise it! Be drawn to it! You must hurry…"

The Doctor spun round, looking for anything familiar. He walked quickly round the dance floor, trying to keep away from the dancers and the blood.

Suddenly the chimes stopped. The air was silent. The windows smashed inwards, and the dancers began to scream. They shrieked and looked at each other, looked for the doors, tried to climb the walls, searching for any way out. Only the dancer and Grace were still, their eyes fixed on the grand chandelier swinging wildly on the ceiling.

As they started again, the Doctor counted the chimes.

_…one, two…_

There was a shriek of wind and mist flew into the room, dark and choking and stinging his eyes. It took a moment to realise that while he found it merely unpleasant, it was corrosive to the dancers. Their fine clothes and hair burned away. Their skin…

_…three, four…_

Blood and people, blood and people. Was there nothing else here? The clock, thought the Doctor, where is that clock?

_…five, six…_

It wasn't real, but then none of it was real, and perhaps he was the only one who could hear it.

_…seven, eight…_

The chandelier shattered, and crystal daggers reigned down on the dancers. Sharper and deadlier than before. Finally, they fell. Dead. Grace screamed. "Hurry, Doctor!" shouted the dancer. The corpses twitched, and began to rise.

_…nine, ten…_

He could see it! The grandfather clock! A shadow in the hall, a mere shadow, but he needed it, he believed it. He ran towards it.

_…eleven, twelve…_

Nine

The Doctor fled through the chiming clock, pulling the door shut as the thirteenth chime sounded. He closed his ears to the shrieks that he heard in the dance hall. Those were not people, he could not help them, he could not even help himself.

The air was still here, a long dark corridor. It was the portrait gallery, and each painting was lit with an unnatural light.

These were the dead, painted in oils. He looked at them, spent a few seconds contemplating each face as he past them by, the least he could do. Jabe's was beautiful, and he stood in front of her and told her how sorry he was, catching her smile as he turned away.

He did not stop again, just walked slowly glancing right then left, until the very final portrait, and the last death. Jack stared back at him, eyes bright and cocky grin.

"You were braver than I ever was," the Doctor admitted.

The threshold was here, the end of the journey.

He closed his eyes and took a step forwards…

The air rushed past him and embraced it, arms open. This was the end, this was where he belonged, his final resting place.

It was not as he had imagined.

The control room of Satellite Five was spread out in front of him in all its chaos. Panels sparked, and the smell of burnt-out wiring hung heavily in the air. There was another feeling, one the Doctor recognised only too well: the aura of recent death. The room stank of burnt flesh, but there were no bodies, no Daleks, no humans, no TARDIS…no Rose.

He cleared a space on the floor and sat down. Somewhere in the distance there was an electronic shriek, and he knew that they were coming.

He took the book out of his pocket and began to read. 


End file.
